


let me hold my broken parts

by ipreferaviators



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipreferaviators/pseuds/ipreferaviators
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things John Watson doesn't do, and five things Sherlock Holmes does, when Sherlock was (not actually) dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me hold my broken parts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a similar fic for SGA fandom back in 2007, so all three people out there who read that can think of this as a remix of my own fic. /0\ Everyone else, pretend I didn't just admit that...
> 
> Title from Ingrid Michaelson's "Be OK."

**Five Things John Doesn’t Do When Sherlock Is (Not Actually) Dead**

1\. _John doesn't move out._

Walking into the flat for the first time after-- _after_ , is the hardest thing John has ever done. When he finally forces himself to push the door open and step inside, he's overwhelmed by how normal everything looks. The couch is still shifted a few inches from when John knocked into it after punching the officer. The skull is still perched on the mantle. Chemistry equipment still covers the kitchen table, and Sher-- _the_ violin is still propped against the arm of a chair, looking like it just sat down for a rest after a bit too much lively music.

John almost walks right back out.

But 221b is his home, and it was Sherlock's home, and if it's all that John has left of the man, he'll take it.

2\. _John doesn't believe the lies._

The papers go nuts when the news breaks. Jim Moriarty, a figment of a sociopathic delusion! Sherlock Holmes, the nutter who had a country fooled! The headlines make John sick to his stomach, make him want to crawl back into bed and stay until he's forgotten everything.

He goes through a lot of whiskey the first few weeks, when the papers are still running the odd editorial about it. He even develops a drinking game: for every lie, he takes a shot. For every truth, he takes two. Getting drunk takes longer than it should.

Lestrade finally intervenes, dragging John out to restaurants and pubs and football matches. John's not sure how bad he looks, that Greg thinks he needs a keeper. But at least it's not Mycroft. The bastard stops by the flat once (and only once), several days after. John nearly shoots him on sight. Mycroft leaves without saying a word, and John hasn't seen him since.

But he knows it's not all Mycroft's fault. John was Sherlock's closest friend, his _only_ friend, and he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop Moriarty from finding a way to burn Sherlock, couldn't convince everyone that Moriarty was lying. Couldn't stop Sherlock from jumping. It's partly John's fault.

Truth. Two shots.

3\. _John doesn't quit his job._

It would be easy to look for a full-time job, now that he's not following Sherlock to crime scenes or chasing suspects in the middle of the night. Sarah offers to give him a solid recommendation. For all that he was unreliable, he's still a damn good doctor. Better than he ever has been, probably, thanks to increased powers of observation.

But somehow, it feels like cheating. Sherlock was married to his work, and John was kind of in love with Sherlock (even if Sherlock never knew and didn't return the feelings).

Finding a new job would be turning his back on the one thing Sherlock loved more than anything. More than life. John can't do it, and Sarah never mentions it again.

4\. _John doesn't stop solving crimes._

It seems silly, at first. John's obviously not Sherlock. He's not a consulting detective, not a detective of any kind, but he can't seem to give it up completely. The first time, he goes to Lestrade and asks. Lestrade looks at him for a moment and doesn't say a word. Then he hands John the file on their current case and motions for him to sit down.

The first case John actually solves is an accident. There's a woman, body burned so badly they almost can't identify it. Anderson's called it arson, a bomb in the tailpipe of her car as cause of death. But John knows it's not. Her skull's intact, which means there was a hole already there before the fire started, a path for the vapor pressure to escape. He finds a single gunshot wound, high velocity at fairly close range, entry and exit wounds both small. They find the bullet in the frame of the car, trace it back to gun used in three previous crimes. John and Lestrade manage to put together how the victims know each other (a support group for single parents) and find the killer at the next meeting. There's a chase, a shoot-out, and a gratifying arrest, and John goes home and cries into the pillows on Sherlock's bed until he falls asleep.

Lestrade calls him next time, and John doesn't hesitate to go.

5\. _John doesn't go to therapy._

He does at first. It's expected; his flatmate and best friend threw himself off a fucking building because most of England was about to stop believing he was the most brilliant man alive, and maybe John has a bit of anger still simmering about the whole thing, but sitting in a too-clean office with a too-nice therapist trying to get him to talk about what Sherlock meant to him wasn't actually helping things. So he stops going, stops answering his phone when the office calls. He doesn't need help to know what he feels. He loved Sherlock, and Sherlock is dead. He'll never get to tell Sherlock anything important, anything about how Sherlock made John want to walk, to run, to live. Sherlock breezed into John's life without a glance backward, pulling John along in his wake, and John never stood a chance. He fell for Sherlock, heart and mind (John's heart, Sherlock's mind), and Sherlock will never know.

John doesn't need a therapist to tell him that. He tells himself every moment of every day.

 

**Five Things Sherlock Does When He Is (Not Actually) Dead**

1\. _Sherlock tells Mycroft._

He can't keep it from his brother, if he's being honest. And that's not a sentimental statement in the least; Mycroft simply has enough spies in enough places that he's sure to hear word of an oddly Sherlock-like man working his way through the underbelly of London, and Sherlock would rather avoid the noise and annoyance involved in Mycroft confronting him when he's dealing with some of Moriarty's men. So he sends Mycroft a letter (more precisely, Molly sends Mycroft a note of condolences, into which Sherlock has slipped a piece of paper containing a coded message that only Mycroft can break, informing him of his brother's current state of being alive) the day after the incident. He also lets Mycroft know about Moriarty's body, because that's the sort of thing Mycroft ought to deal with. Sherlock's got more important things to do.

2\. _Sherlock rents a flat._

He can't exactly go back to 221b. He considered developing an elaborate and convincing disguise and attempting to rent out his old room, but it soon becomes clear that John isn't planning to look for a new roommate. Sherlock ignores the clench in his stomach at that, focusing on how ill-considered that plan is. John doesn't make enough at the surgery to pay full rent to Mrs. Hudson. Nevertheless, his old room isn't a possibility, so Sherlock finds another flat. It's on the other side of London, closer to the dark corners where Moriarty's men are silently waiting for a command that will never come. It's convenient, well-hidden, and Sherlock doesn't have to be concerned about any of his old acquaintances seeing him.

It's for the best, he knows. But that doesn't mean there aren't nights where he longs for his skull, his violin, his couch, and his friend.

3\. _Sherlock drinks a lot of tea._

Tea with sugar, Sherlock has found, is an excellent substitute for food. Enough of a lift to the blood sugar to keep one going for long periods of running, but not so heavy as to slow one down. And if he happens to buy the same brand John favours, well, it's just because he hasn't had much experience with tea and doesn't know if any other brand would be quite as good. That's all.

4\. _Sherlock watches John._

He shouldn't. Every moment that he spends watching John is a moment that he doesn't spend chasing down his only escape from this lie. But he can't stop himself.

He manages the first couple of months (two months, two days, and six hours) without seeing John. He's busy, setting up his new flat, following up on leads, and hiding from the curious eyes of people who still remember his face from the newspapers. But as time goes on, Sherlock finds himself accidentally venturing back towards 221b when he's intending to stake out a warehouse, or walking in the alley behind the station when he thought he was walking towards the docks. It's absurd, and it's interfering with his work, so Sherlock finally gives in to his unsubtle subconscious.

He gives his old key and several wireless pin cameras to one of the homeless network, paying a large sum to ensure silence, and sets up a reciever on the roof of 224 Baker Street. This is connected via satellite to one of Sherlock's new mobiles, all through layers of encryption that would have sent even Moriarty crying to his mother. He knows that John would say it's "a bit not good," to sit on the floor in his dark flat and watch John make tea, wander about, mutter to himself, and watch telly, but it's mostly harmless.

John would probably say that the camera in John's bedroom is more than a bit not good, but Sherlock doesn’t feel guilty. He rarely sleeps anymore, but watching John dream is more relaxing than sleeping himself, even when the dreams are obviously less than pleasant. It's a reminder of why he's doing this, why he did it in the first place. John is safe, John is sleeping, and Sherlock can't bring himself to wish for more. Not yet.

5\. _Sherlock clears his name._

It takes ten months, one week, three days, and fourteen hours. He's arranged the accidental deaths of eight of Moriarty's men, stolen eleven electronic storage devices (two flash drives, one phone, one hard drive, and seven computers), and interviewed 129 people. When Sherlock finally finds what he's been searching for (the original records of "Richard Brook" and evidence of Moriarty's real name, all meticulously removed from the annals of public knowledge and preserved by Moriarty out of arrogant nostalgia), he is exhausted. He wants nothing more than to spend several days on his own bed, in his own flat, with John constantly in view. Instead, he mails a box to Mycroft, goes back to his empty rental, slaps on four nicotine patches, and stares at the ceiling for two days and nine hours.

When the knock on his door comes, Sherlock's floating on the edge of consciousness. He hasn't eaten anything, including tea, since he laid down, and his nicotine high has long since worn off. He doesn't bother to answer, since anyone who knows they want to come in will come in regardless of his own actions.

As if on cue, the door swings open. No kicking, no pounding. Mycroft must have gotten the key. Sherlock doesn't turn to look, since he's quite certain that the last time he counted the pockmarks in the ceiling, he found 1,573, and this past time he's only found 1,571. What's he missing? He ignores the sound of his own name, since it's quite obvious that whoever is calling for him won't know where to find the last two marks. But when hands grip his shoulders, wrenching him up off the floor and face-to-face with familiar blond hair, familiar blue eyes, and an unfamiliar track of tears rolling down familiar cheeks, he can't ignore it anymore. He gasps, feeling his mind slam back into his body, the sensations in his fingertips coming back into awareness. He's gripping the sleeves of John's jumper, stretching the tight-knit stitches apart, and it's the most incredible thing he's ever felt.

"John," he whispers.


End file.
